


Being Good

by Waking_dreams



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Femdom, Light BDSM, One Shot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:32:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1357612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waking_dreams/pseuds/Waking_dreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione decides to act out a few of her fantasies on an all-too-willing Draco. For some couples, this would be quite ordinary, but for them, it was a first in many ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being Good

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my Beta!
> 
> Note on BDSM warning: this warning is entirely debatable. Any "BDSM" in the story is fairly light and never called such in the story. However, I do think that the interactions in parts of the fic do vaguely fit in this category, hence the warning.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Hermione Granger was the type of witch that felt uncomfortable with telling a wizard she loved him before he had told her the same, and she was even less sexually forward than she was romantically forward. Out of all her first kisses (of which there had been four), she had only initiated one—Victor Krum—and that had been such a fumbling and thoroughly awkward experience that she didn’t even know if it counted as a kiss. Ron had been the one to initiate their first kiss as well as a number of other sexual firsts, and the Muggle man that had followed him was similarly the leader in the sexual side of their relationship. Draco Malfoy, so far, seemed to fit into this type she had chosen for herself: forward, incredibly comfortable in both his own body and in hers, perceptive (he had picked up on her shy love of being addressed solely by her last name without her ever having to broach the subject), and even—and she would only ever admit this after her fifth Firewhiskey and a _Muffliato_ —dominant and thoroughly commanding in the sexual side of their relationship. 

“Not today,” she told her reflection in the mirror, which nodded in agreement. 

She had been having certain _fantasies_ of the carnal variety, and when hurried touches in the privacy of the shower had not been enough to satisfy them, she had begun to consider the idea of acting them out on Draco. To some couples, this would not seem such a grand revelation, but to Hermione, who was certainly not unused to sex or fantasies but was unused to having a partner with whom she could share them, this decision required a few days of deliberation and careful self-encouragement. Draco loved her body, had always made a point of conveying his appreciation of the roundness of her hips and the fullness of her bottom, and though he also loved bossing her around in bed, that was no reason to suspect that he wouldn’t like _her_ bossing _him_ around, too. 

She felt a little shiver go down the back of her neck at the thought. Draco, at _her_ mercy for once, begging her to let him—permit him—to kiss her, to touch her, to enter her and feel how much she wanted him. The thought made her breathing unsteady and her very core slick with anticipation. She ran her hand along her clothed thigh with closed eyes, imagining him watching her with hungry eyes, wanting to replace her hand with his own. She would tell him no, and then she would slide her hand between her legs, as she was now, and he would swear at her, tell her with his eyes how desperate for her he was. Her hands parted her folds to lightly press against her bundle of nerves and pleasure filled her senses. Want settled low in her belly, and she opened her eyes, seeing in the mirror how her pupils had dilated. 

She began to unbutton her shirt, burning at the thought of Draco and his hands and his hot eyes. She slipped it over her shoulders, allowed it to float to the ground, and let her skirt follow, stepping out of it to stand only in her undergarments before the mirror. Should she get rid of her bra and knickers, too? She paused, deliberating. She loved the rough way in which he tore them from her body, sometimes, when he was especially hungry for her—but that was not today, she decided. Today was different, because she wasn’t going to hold any part of herself back. She unfastened her bra and stepped out of her knickers, leaving both on the growing pile of clothes. 

Naked now, she could see exactly what was appealing about her body. Her breasts and neck were already flushed pink in a way that was unexpectedly _sexy_ , and while she wasn’t the most endowed, Draco (nor any of her previous lovers) had certainly never found fault with her breasts, though he vastly preferred the southern parts of her. Her belly was rounded and soft in a way that she had once fretted over (dieted and exercised sporadically over) but in a way that she now accepted as being part of her appeal, as being a part of her particular type of womanhood. The night before, as part of the brazenness of her fantasy, she had removed her pubic hair. She had never done that before, and she found that she liked the effect: she loved the sight of the place where her thighs met and barely glistened with her own wetness and she would love the sight even more when he was buried inside her, joining them unobstructed for the first time. 

The thought of him inside her made her torn between the immediate pleasure of her own fingers and vibrant imagination and the heady thought of going to him now, wanting his cock, _telling_ him that she wanted him now, and he was going to have to meet her demands. She certainly wasn’t going to back down now, she decided. 

With one last glance at her reflection, Hermione left their shared bedroom. On afternoons like these, Draco could commonly be found reading in his favorite armchair by the window, and that’s exactly where he was on this day. She entered the room silently enough that he did not hear her and the blond stayed engrossed in his book. 

If she was to be perfectly honest, interrupting his leisure time was half of the appeal of the fantasy. The thought of him not knowing about her lusty plans and sitting there, innocently reading, made her even wetter, and she made a small noise, high in her throat without meaning to. 

“Granger?” he asked, closing his book and turning to face her. His eyes widened and blinked slowly at the sight of her, nude, bare, and heavy-lidded, standing in the doorway. He licked his lips, staring at the place where her thighs met, and set his book on a table nearby. 

“Stay where you are,” she blurted out when it seemed like he would start to rise. “Be a good boy,” she added huskily. She didn’t know where the inspiration for _that_ came from, but he did as she asked, his eyes dark. The sight made her even hotter for him. 

She crossed the room to stand between his legs. He lifted his head to eagerly accept her kiss as she leaned down. She nearly whimpered at the touch of his tongue to hers, and he made a noise low in his throat, reaching out to cup her breast in his hand. 

She pulled away from him almost immediately, stepped out of his reach. “Now, now,” she reprimanded him. She felt like she was slipping into some sort of character, some sort of seductress character, and she loved the feeling. “Keep your hands to yourself, love, until I say otherwise. Can you do that for me?” 

He let out a shaky breath at her words and a familiar sensual smirk twisted his mouth. “Yes, Granger. I’ll be good,” he promised hotly, his eyes on fire now as he stared her down. 

“Good,” she replied breathlessly, and then she was kissing him again. His tongue was even more insistent now, and she threaded her hands through his hair to tilt his head, to take control of the kiss. His breathing became harder as she did so, and he seemed to give in to her control over the rhythm and pace of their movements. 

She moved to sit on his lap and felt him tense beneath her. As she stroked one of her hands down his neck to his shoulder, she could feel the tension in his arms. Pulling back from the kiss, she could see that his hands were in fists on the arms of his favorite chair and his knuckles were white in their grip on the fabric of the seat. The sight fuelled her need for him, and she rocked herself against his cock, whimpering at the friction of the fabric of his trousers on her skin. She wanted him insider of her so badly, but she wanted him to _suffer_ more, as he was suffering now with his hands in fists and his head thrown back and his eyes closed and his breaths shaky. 

“I’m so wet,” she whispered to him on a whim, and could feel his groan from beneath her. “Look,” she crooned, and his eyes snapped open, all fire and heat and want. They followed the path of her hand as she slipped one, two fingers inside of herself and curled them to hit herself just right. Letting out a little moan, she withdrew her fingers and moved them so he could see the wetness glisten on them in the light, could see how _ready_ she was for his cock. 

“Granger.” Her name was a groan on his lips, a press of his tongue to his teeth, a twitch of his cock beneath her. 

She rocked against his erection again, as her hands found the buttons of his shirt and her mouth found his again. Her fingers deftly undid his shirt and she pulled back from the kiss, breathless. “Lean forward,” she commanded, and he did, his mouth pleasingly swollen and his eyes needy. She pushed the shirt from his shoulders, allowed him to shrug his arms from it and throw it to the floor. The muscles in his arms flexed as he returned them to the arms of the chair, as if he was actively resisting touching her body, and the thought excited her. 

“So lovely,” she whispered to him as she flattened her palms against his chest and leaned down to suck on his collarbone. His hips bucked beneath her at the motion and suddenly she moved to hover above him, so that he was no longer pressed against her. “No,” she told him harshly, reveling in the feeling of power she had. “Be good. Be good and I’ll make it good for you,” she promised him hotly. She could see his jaw clench at her words, and again the elation of feeling powerful swept her. 

She kissed his chest again, bending somewhat awkwardly in his lap to do so, but neither of them minded. She stroked his skin, admiring both the softness of the skin and the contrast between it and the firmness of muscle beneath it. Draco Malfoy was beautiful, and he was _hers._ She bit his chest as the thought crossed her mind, and he grunted, tensed again beneath her. His cock pressed incessantly against her thigh, and she knew if he were not determined to remain silent, to obey her, he would be coaxing her into taking him into her mouth. The thought made her mouth water, and one hand stroked down his stomach, reached between them and pressed against the heat of him through his trousers. 

He made a strangled noise in his throat and she kissed him, allowed his tongue to thrust powerfully into her mouth as she undid the button of his trousers to slip her hand inside. His cock was hot and already slick and this made her oddly proud and even more possessive. He was hers, and he was so, so good. She tried to stroke him, but the tight confines of his trousers restricted movement. He exhaled harshly as she removed her hand, and she released he had been holding his breath while she had touched him. She kissed him harder before pulling back and lifting herself onto her knees. 

“Take it off,” she told him, gesturing that he should do it while she knelt above him. “Everything,” she added. Instantly his hands were between their bodies, unzipping his fly, and then he was arching his back to lift his bum high enough to slip both his underwear and trousers over it. This action pressed his cock against her, and she wanted to rub herself against him, watch her wetness glisten on him. His legs awkwardly kicked and his hips lowered again as he managed to get rid of his clothing entirely. She mourned the loss of the feel of him, but she wasn’t done with him yet. 

“Watch,” she ordered, and his eyes were glued to her. She parted her folds with a hand, displaying the glistening moisture gathered there, and with her other hand began to rub the bundle of nerves. Her eyes fluttered closed on a sigh, and she dipped two fingers inside herself, began to pump and stroke. She found herself rocking her hips to her own motions, and lowered herself so that her hand brushed over the damp head of his cock as part of her rocking. 

“Granger,” he choked out, and she looked to see his teeth were bared in an expression that was nearly a snarl and that a vein had appeared in each forearm, braced and tensed against the chair. Her fingers increased in pace, and he exhaled roughly in one breath. “Please,” he snarled. 

She kept fingering herself, meeting his eyes now, letting him see the look in her eyes as she pleasured herself, brought herself closer. “Please what, love?” she asked—she meant to ask it innocently, sweetly, but it came out breathless and needy, and he bit his lip at the sound. 

“Fuck me,” he groaned, sounding agonized. 

She wanted him to beg. She pulled her fingers out, made sure he noticed the moisture on them, and then inserted them into her mouth, sucking hard. 

“Fuck,” he swore, staring at her hallowed cheeks before she removed her fingers with a pop. 

“You need to ask nicely,” she instructed him roughly, licking more of her essence from her hand. 

“Please, _please_ fuck me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please, Granger. _Fuck me._ ” 

“You’re so good,” she crooned into his ear, and then she kissed him. She reached behind her to grasp his cock in her hand and then she sunk down onto him, taking him in. His cock was hot inside her, filling and stretching her to accommodate his size. 

When she didn’t move immediately but sat instead, with her internal muscles tightening and then relaxing and tightening again around him, he let out a long almost tortured groan. “Granger, you have to move,” he whimpered, _whimpered_ at her, and she felt victorious. 

She lifted her hips away from him, feeling his cock begin to slide out of her, and then she slammed herself back down on him, moaning at the feeling of the delightful pressure inside her. She could feel his cock twitch inside of her, and she nearly shuddered at the pleasure this gave her. She repeated the motion of rising and then falling on him, felt his breathing follow. “You like that, love?” she whispered, sounding almost _cocky_ in a way that had not ever been her but was now delightfully her. “You like the feeling of your cock in me?” 

“Fuck, Granger. _Yes._ You’re killing me,” he moaned as she tightened around him, sank to take his length in again. 

“You’ve been such a good boy. You’ve earned a reward,” she said. “Touch me.” 

His hands were all over her before the words were fully formed in her mouth. He stroked her hips, sunk his fingertips in as she moved on and around him, reached back to grab her bum to pull her more firmly down on his cock, and almost violently grab the back of her head to pull her down to meet the hot press of his mouth to hers. He thrust up into her, and she moaned at the fierce arousal in her belly, the need to let him fuck her until she came around him, moaning his name. But the control—the memory of power was the more heady aphrodisiac, and she pulled away slightly to say, “No, love. Be good, and I’ll let you come.” 

He groaned in her mouth and the hand fisted in her hair loosened and slid to wrap around her hip, encouraging the up-and-down motion of her body on his. The other hand slid to press against her, rub that spot that had her moving harder and more desperately, fucking herself roughly on his cock. She found herself moaning each time his cock hit a spot deep inside her as his fingers pressed against her, and she couldn’t get enough of him. She would never get enough of this, of his cock in her and his breath ragged against her ear and his hand hard on her hip, her bum. Glancing down, she watched as his cock alternately filled her and left her empty, aching, and the way his cock glistened in between her downward thrusts. When she looked up, his eyes were fastened on the sight of their union as well, and the almost pained look of ecstasy on his face encouraged her to redouble her efforts in fucking him. 

“I’m going to come all over your cock,” she murmured in his ear, all sultry promises now. She felt like she was going to burst, yet she still shifted herself to get him deeper, harder, inside her. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He moaned his agreement against her neck, and his hand against her clitoris picked up pace. She moaned against his ear. “Draco, I’m so _close_ ,” she said, and this time it sounded like a whine. His breath was hot against her ear, and she pressed her mouth to the place where his shoulder met his neck. He thrust up against her, his cock surging in powerfully, and with a shattered moan, she came, biting into shoulder and tightening her muscles around his cock. 

He made an unintelligible sound against her hair and then his hands were holding her hips in place as he thrust hard into her. She raked her nails down his chest, pressed the heels of her palms to his nipples in the way she knew he liked. She felt almost sleepy as she came down from the high of her orgasm, but the feel of his body, strung taunt like a bow, nearing his completion was the very definition of erotic. She sucked on the skin she had recently bitten, wanting to mark him, to show to the world that _he was hers_ , and then she could feel his cock pulse as he thrust a final time and spent himself inside her. 

She collapsed on him then, a pile of sweaty and shaky limbs. One of his hands came up to stroke some strands of her hair away from her face, and she rested her head on his shoulder, content to lay there so they both could catch their breaths and bask in the haze of an afterglow. She could fall asleep on him like this, she thought, as she shifted her legs to a more comfortable seated position on his lap. Underneath her ear, his heart thrummed powerfully in his chest, and she tapped her fingers on his arm in time with the beats. Some lovers, she’d heard, rolled over after sex was finished, but both she and Draco enjoyed the sweaty tangle of limbs and the slow return to Earth from the previous high. For her, the appeal of it was the sheer comfort: his arms, his warmth surrounding her brought her peace that she rarely experienced otherwise. She thought he experienced a similar feeling, combined with a burst of masculine pride in his ability to reduce her to a quivering mess—but that was not the case today. She felt a burst of pride; she had reduced him to this state—was this how he felt after she submitted to him? 

“Great Merlin,” Draco finally spoke, breaking the silence. 

Her train of thought lost, she lifted her head to smile at him. How odd it was that she felt a tiny bit shy, now, when minutes ago she had been the very antithesis of it. “That good?” she asked teasingly. 

“Hell, that was the best I’ve—that good? You nearly killed me,” he told her, laughing. “Do you have any idea how insanely sexy you were?” 

She laughed with him, pressed her face against his neck again. “ _I_ planned it, so it’s no wonder it was perfect,” she said, mock-arrogantly. 

“You planned this?” His tone was serious. When she nodded against his neck, he let out a long breath. “Merlin. You, thinking about this, touching yourself, getting all hot and ready for me. Merlin.” He seemed both amazed by and impressed by the prospect. 

“I did,” she told him. “Touch myself, I mean. I wanted this so badly, and I wanted you in me and desperate and I wanted to tell you no and, you know.” 

“Merlin.” The twitch of his cock against her leg brought further attention to the effect her words had on him. When she looked up at him, his eyes were dark again. “If you ever want to… Granger, for you, I can always be a good boy.” 

It was like the words went straight through her body, igniting every nerve she thought had fizzled out. “Good things happen to good boys,” she replied, and leaned forward to kiss him again. 


End file.
